


House of Gold

by Jovaughn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya's POV, Because they are perfect, F/M, Mostly Gendrya, Re-write, Season 8, first got fic, post-Long Night
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-02 22:42:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19450966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jovaughn/pseuds/Jovaughn
Summary: What if Arya went looking for Gendry after the Long Night battle? And not the other way around. My rendition of Season 8 and how it should have gone for Gendrya.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well it's been a few months and I still can't get over the heartbreak. 
> 
> Saw a prompt on Tumblr that I couldn't get out of my head...Arya goes looking for Gendry post-Long Night battle celebration. 
> 
> First GoT fic. Let's see how I do. I'm guesstimating about eight chapters, could be less, could be more. 
> 
> I'm brand new to Tumblr but you can follow me if you want: jovanoverthere
> 
> [These beautiful lyrics](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/atreyu/houseofgold.html) inspired the title!

House of Gold

Sounds of celebration echoed all through the castle.

A long forgotten part of Arya wanted to take her rightful place at Jon and Bran and Sansa’s side—wanted to raise a cup of something stale but strong, and salute to all the lives lost and gained. Celebrate like everyone else, like a normal human...but she couldn’t. She _wasn’t_ normal. And besides that, it would be premature to celebrate while a treacherous lion roared on an iron throne in the south.

They called her a hero, but she was no hero. She was just a girl with a list and an unquenchable thirst for vengeance. Nothing had changed.

Well… _something_ had changed. Her cheeks went red as she remembered the feel of his strong, crafty hands rolling over her maiden body. No place was safe from his furious touch, not even her most precious area. His name had been a desperate gasp on her lips when their bodies connected, and she found herself saying it over and over, a sweet fervent chant, as they danced a most wonderful dance. 

Winter was here—so why was she burning up? 

Arya longed to see the bastard boy—the only person she would ever let touch her in the ways he did.

While in Braavos, she convinced herself the bull was nothing more than a traveling companion. Someone she had to make friends with because survival was eminent in a pack. The foolish lie came back to mock her....he was much more than a traveling companion. Much more than a friend, if their recent rendezvous was to be considered.

An unusual thing happened the moment she saw him again: Ice flowed through Arya’s blood (she was truly a Stark) and a harrowing life only hardened the winter inside her, but his presence in Winterfell set a blazing fire to her veins, warming her insides just enough to second guess everything she thought she knew about herself. Arya still felt like _no one_ until he came riding into her home atop a white steed. Until she found him in the forge and he teased her with “milady,” a familiar—and surprisingly missed—jab that brought a genuine smile to her otherwise callous face.

Arya found herself standing outside the forge. 

Would he be there? The sound of a hammer hitting metal forced her hand. She entered the abandoned smithy and smiled on the inside when she saw him hammering away on a would-be sword.

“You should be celebrating,” she told him, leaning against a distant post.

He stopped hammering to look up at her. A gash above his eye was healing nicely. “I am celebrating. You’re the hero anyway.”

A smirk played on her lips. “Don’t care much for heroes.”

“I do,” he gushed, ocean eyes crashing into hers like a title wave. Something telling was swimming there. 

She moved to stand in front of the anvil he was hammering on and gave him a pointed look.

Neither of them said anything as they gravitated towards one another and embraced, lips brushing in a soft kiss. They both sighed in relief. Perhaps they hadn’t truly breathed since they scrambled back into discarded clothes and briskly kissed goodbye before rushing to their sure deaths. 

Gendry pulled away slightly. “You’re incredible.” 

Were her eyes shining? She felt like her eyes were shinning.

“Because I stabbed the Night King?”

Gendry shook his head. “Because you’re different. Because you’re beautiful and furious and I’ve always thought it….since you were...before you were…this ....mighty…. _woman_.” 

His last word was full of intention and lust and he gave her no time to respond. His lips were on hers again, harder, hungrier and Arya answered in kind.

She pulled back, breathless. “I’m not staying here, Gendry.” The sadness in her voice surprised her.

An eyebrow rose at that. “Winterfell is your home. Where will you go?”

“I have unfinished business.”

Arya watched as he worked it out in his head. They were still in an embrace. 

“The queen,” he whispered, putting the pieces together.

“I’m going to kill her,” a promise.

Gendry didn’t poke fun or retaliate with something stupid. Instead, he kissed her gently and assured her, “I’m coming with you.”

“No,” she refused, “too dangerous.”

“You think you’re the only one who has been off becoming lethal. I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life. Besides, I don’t belong here, Arya. I belong out there,” he nodded towards the unknown, “with you…wherever you are. I didn’t know it until I saw you again. But as soon as I did, I knew. I knew things would never be the same. We’re together again and I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth now. Wherever you are—that’s where I belong. So let’s go kill the bloody queen, end this stupid war and start a life together. We deserve it. _You_ deserve it.” 

If her eyes weren’t shining before, they were now. “Are you proposing?”

“Aye, I believe I am, if you would have me. If it’s even possible. I’ve got no land, no money. I’m no bloody Lord, Arya. I’ve got nothing to give you but my love.”

This was _crazy_. Arya Stark didn’t get proposed to. Arya Stark killed things and hid in the shadows and didn’t _feel_ , and she sure as hell didn’t swoon. But she was doing just that, in the arms of a man she thought forever gone. He wasn’t forever gone. He was here, holding her, and she…she _loved_ him.

“You’re no Lord and I’m no lady,” she whispered before kissing him hard.

Before long, their clothes were off and he was taking her on a work table, sounds of their intimacy joining Winterfell’s revelry. 

Later, as she was tying her tunic, Gendry considered joining the castle in its primitive reception. “I think an appearance from the hero of Winterfell is warranted. Your brother and sister would appreciate it.”

Arya knew he was right. “Come with me?” 

“I’ll wash up.” 

The entire hall blew up in cheers when she arrived. Without much warning, she was surrounded. There were claps on the back, handshakes, drinks thrown into her hands, and when she finally made it to the high table, the big man with the red beard pulled her off the ground into a bone-crushing hug. At that moment, she very much regretted her decision to show face. She wanted to be somewhere wrapped in blankets, Gendry’s hard body next to her. 

“Tormund, put her down,” Jon advised, a weak smile playing on his lips. 

Arya stood red-faced at her brother’s side, wildlings, Northern men and Dothraki alike surrounding them. 

“A drink!” Tormund demanded. “A drink for this small, brave, ferocious she-wolf who saved the entire fuckin’ world!” 

Another drink was pushed into Arya’s hands. Nobody seemed to question Gendry’s presence. A large mug was pushed into his hands as well and he grinned as he put the sour ale to his lips. 

Arya scanned the room as she drank. She spotted Sansa sitting across the hall with the Hound. They looked to be in deep conversation and Arya didn’t miss the seemingly innocent way her sister’s queenly hand laid atop his. An eyebrow rose at that. Brienne of Tarth was a table over _laughing_ with the King Slayer, eyes all aglow. Arya’s eyebrows were now touching her hairline, she was sure. War did funny things. 

__

__

Her gaze soon found the Queen. Daenerys Targaryen sat like a stone, eyes heavy with something Arya recognized: Heartbreak. 

The thing about heartbreak, after a while, it got hard to separate from fury. From vengeance.

Arya found herself frowning, something strange biting at her insides, but before she could analyze the feeling, the Queen stood. 

“The Long Night has found its champion!” The hall went deathly quiet, impressively enough for a crowd of drunks. “Arya Stark of Winterfell!” 

Cheers erupted like thunder. 

Arya nodded at the Queen. 

“I have come to Westeros to bring a change this place has never known. A change, I hope, that will bring peace to every man, woman and child as far as the east is from the west. Change is something we need. Change is something we should embrace. Arya Stark, you will be a valuable warrior in the next war to come. And when we take the throne from Cersei, you have a place in my guard, if you would have it.” 

A knight in the Queensguard? The elatedness warming her belly was new and exciting, but it turned to guilt the moment she glanced over at Sansa and Gendry. Jon wore a small but somehow heavy smile. The hall was deathly quiet again. “Thank you for the honor, your grace. I pledge to fight in the war to come, but I’m afraid I will not be staying in King’s Landing after the war is won.” 

“Of course,” the Queen nodded before moving on without pause. “There are other matters of change I would like to address.”

The Queen’s eyes landed on Gendry. 

A wolf’s growl almost instantly escaped Arya’s lips. She could feel it buzzing in her throat, clawing for an escape. 

“Gendry, is it?” 

Gendry looked at Arya then at Jon and finally to Davos, who seemed to appear suddenly from the throngs of people standing around the high table. 

“Yes, your grace,” he said uneasily. 

“You armed our armies and fought bravely. This world owes you a great debt.” 

“This world owes us all a great debt.” With a quick look at Davos, he added, “your grace.” 

“Tell me, who are you?” 

_Who are you? _The god of death whispered to Arya.__

__“I’m just Gendry Waters, a bastard boy from Flea Bottom, your grace.”_ _

__“No,” the Queen disagreed. “You’re not.”_ _

__Gendry gaped like a fish out of water. Arya wanted to come to his rescue. “I’m sorry, your grace, I don’t understand.”_ _

__“You are Robert Baratheon's son. Your father killed my brother and he tried to kill me.”_ _

__No one said a word._ _

__“However, the change I am to bring will require new friendships. I do not wish to see a once mighty House taken under by the waves of war. From hence forth, you are no longer Gendry Waters. You are Gendry Baratheon, Lord to Storm’s End.”_ _


	2. Chapter 2

Arya tried to smile as the entire hall lifted their drinks in honor of his new name. _Gendry Baratheon. Lord of Storm’s End._ She tried but failed. 

Daenerys nodded purposely at Gendry before retreating to her high seat. 

With her dismissal, everyone turned back to their own pleasures. Everyone except Arya and Gendry. Time seemed to stand still for the wolf and the _stag_ and neither said anything as the shock settled into realization. 

Gendry, stiff as a weirwood tree, offered her a feigned smile. 

Discerning his thoughts used to be an easy feat—the bull-headed boy typically wore his emotions like a freshly shined helmet—but Arya couldn’t read him just now. Was he excited? Did he want to be a Lord? Only hours ago they established a rather appealing plan: kill Cersei, end the war, start a life together. The offer had been settling into her heart quite nicely. But her idea of “a life together” did not include castles and suffocating titles.

“Congratulations, Lord Baratheon,” Jon offered him. 

The possibility of their future was being pried right out of her cold, dangerous hands. 

“Yes.” Davos agreed. “Congratulations, lad.” 

Because she was now almost certain the look on his face was indeed excitement. 

It was her turn to offer a sentiment—so why couldn’t she?

“What just happened? I’m no bloody Lord.” Gendry went pale as a second blow of realization struck him senseless. Flustered, he chugged down the remainder of his drink and stared into the mug’s bottom as if it held all the answers to life. 

“Neither was I, but that didn’t stop them from making me one.” Jon gave him a rough pat on the back before slipping off to speak with Daenerys. 

“Apologies, _my Lord_ , please excuse me for a moment.” Arya turned to leave. 

__

__

Gendry moved to follow her, but Davos caught him by the sleeve and mumbled, “A word, lad.” 

Arya didn’t look back as she made her way to the table where Brienne of Tarth sat with lions. 

The group moved to stand when she approached. 

“Don't,” a frosty, pointed demand. 

No one said anything as they settled back into to their seats. Arya took the empty spot next to Brienne.

Lord Tyrion cleared his throat

“Care to join us in a game, Lady Stark?” he buzzed, scooting a goblet across the table. 

“Only if you _never_ call me that again.”

He nodded once, as if to say, ‘deal.’

“The game goes like this: I will tell you what I think is a truth about yourself. If what I say is true, you must drink. If what I say is false, you do not drink and it is your turn to come up with a truth.”

“And once it’s my turn, I can “truth” anyone I want?”

“That’s the way it goes.” The hand of the Queen looked as if he wanted to say something funny or clever, but inevitably decided against it. “I’ll go first—you learned how to fight in Braavos.”

Arya didn’t bother asking how he figured. She took her cup of wine and took a deep drag. 

“You prefer the company of women.”

A slight grin found her lips. Is that what people thought? She didn’t touch her drink.

“My turn?” Arya asked. 

Tyrion, looking slightly abashed, nodded.

Arya didn’t waste a second. She connected eyes with Jamie Lannister and spoke her truth, “Your sister conspired against my father and it ultimately lead to his murder.”

The air seemed to have been sucked right out of the room. Tyrion, Jamie, Brienne and her squire went properly frigid—it appeared as if they couldn’t breath, as if winter had come back for them all. 

Winter was here but not for them. 

Jamie, recklessness shining in his eyes, took his mug and drank.

“Your sister birthed three of your children. All dead now, of course.” 

He frowned and drank again. 

No one was laughing like before. Stoney-eyed, unimpassioned, she confirmed, “You still love her.” 

Jamie drank once more.

The weighty glance he shared with Brienne did not escape Arya. 

“Look me in the eye.” He already was...had been since she started questioning him. She didn’t know whether she wanted to kill him or respect him for his bravery. “Tell me, Kingslayer, is this the truth?” She paused for just a moment. “I’m going to _kill_ your sister.”

It was the purest truth she had to offer, but he didn’t drink. 

“My turn then?” Jamie Lannister snatched up a canister of wine and looked her right in the eyes as he topped her off. Was he mocking her by not drinking? Did he believe that someone else would kill Cersei? The Dragon Queen, perhaps? “You’re scared,” his truth to Arya. 

She didn’t drink.

“You’re scared,” he continued, “to live. Your life is a sad song full of rage and regret and revenge and you don’t know who you are without those things. You can kill my sister. You can kill all of your enemies. But when it’s all said and done—your strength, your self-imposed purpose, the thing that’s gotten you this far—it will be your undoing. Because how... how...will you ever live in peace when all you’ve ever known is chaos? You’re scared. You’re scared to live because you know deep down inside that you’re much too _damaged_ for a happy or even halfway decent life.”

Brave, indeed.

Jamie’s truth sliced into her “damaged” heart way too easily and that bothered her.

_Who are you?_

Arya Stark of Winterfell.

She didn’t feel like Arya. 

_Who are you?_

No one.

But that wasn’t true either. 

The fancy, _rich girl_ dagger she plunged into the Night King’s icy heart was calling for a name. She rested her hand on the hilt and weighed her options.

Did she slit the King Slayer’s throat because the person she loathed most in the world loved him? Or did she take up the goblet and drink? 

“Arya?” Her fingers released the weapon when Gendry approached the table. “A word?” 

Arya decided then: She snatched up the goblet and drank deeply, eyeing the King Slayer as she slammed the empty cup to the table. 

There was, she noticed, a slight smirk on all their faces as she walked away. 

Arya, suddenly hot, let Gendry lead them outside to the freezing grounds where Winterfell’s revelry continued without shame or pause. The merriment of survival buzzed all around them and Arya didn’t even blush when she noticed two people fucking against a nearby wall.

Gendry stopped to look at her. 

He seemed annoyed...and drunk. 

“You look too irritated for someone who just got handed a castle, _my Lord_.” Her last word came out in a slur. 

He ignored the jab. “Is there some place quiet we can go?” 

Arya sighed too heavily and grabbed Gendry by the hand. The alcohol seemed to hit them harder with every step, and the newly acquired buzz had them laughing lightheartedly at one another as they stumbled and swayed their way to her chambers. 

Gendry didn’t seemed annoyed anymore.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered into her hair when they reached her door. He was so close... so perfectly close.

“You’re drunk,” Arya accused him as they fell into her room. 

“So are you,” he defended. “Still beautiful.” 

She rolled her shining eyes.

Gendry, stilling himself, took in his surroundings. 

Arya watched him. 

He was broad-shouldered and so handsome and she wanted him inside her right then and there, but she watched his blue eyes sink into a sea of heavy thoughts. 

Her friend-turned-lover clearly felt out of place in her large, undeniably “royal” room. 

Her suspicions were confirmed when his eyes misted over and his shoulders dropped under an invisible weight. He was overcome by _everything_. The sober part of her mind understood his weariness. In the matter of a few moons, the bull (stag) had fought beyond the wall, armed and won an impossible battle, and was now a legitimized Lord by order of the Queen.

She knew his bastard blood bothered him more than he let on, so a part of her wanted to be (or maybe even was) happy for him, but Arya was _not_ a lady. Would he want her to come to Storm’s End? Would he ask her to be his lady? That’s not what she wanted, but Arya couldn’t deny she felt _right_ when she was with him, like she was close to finding a puzzle piece that would help life make sense. Earlier that evening, when Gendry had nothing to offer her but love, she was, for the first time in a long time (maybe ever), hopeful about the future. 

But if it was one thing she had learned, it was that hope did not tell the truth. Hope was a liar.

_You’re scared to live because you know deep down inside that you’re much too damaged for a happy or even halfway decent life._

The King Slayer’s words stung. 

But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because there were only two truths that Arya cared about now: She was going to kill Cersei and, Lord or not, Gendry was in her room.

“Congratulations, Gendry. You will make a wonderful lord.” Maybe she meant it, maybe she didn’t. Either way, she said it. She said it and then she kissed him. 

The kiss was wet and sloppy and drunk and it ended with him atop her on the fur-covered bed. 

Gendry pulled away from her swollen lips. “I don’t want to be lord of anything,” he admitted.

Arya sat up on her elbows. “I’m not sure you have a choice. The Queen made you lord for a reason. You are the last Baratheon and your blood is important.”

“My blood isn’t anymore important than anyone elses.”

“So what are you saying? You aren’t going to Storm’s End?”

“I told you where I’m going.”

“Gendry, don’t give up your legitimatization for me. You’ve always wanted this...deep down.”

Why was she talking him out of their future together?

“I always wanted to feel like I matter—like I belong somewhere.” He paused. “A title didn’t give that to me, Arya. _You_ did.” 

Hope was a liar.

“The room is spinning,” was all she could say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and kuddos. You guys rock! 
> 
> I really love Jamie Lannister and I hated his ending. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! I’ve been out of town. Heading home today. Next chapter soon.


	3. Chapter 3

Arya woke before dawn. 

Soft snores tickling at her ear reminded her she wasn’t alone. Gendry, as if sensing her consciousness, placed his arm tight around her naked waist and pulled her close.

The thick, arousing smell of their love lingered in the air. Foggy, though it was, she recalled the night before. When the room finally stopped spinning, and they silenced talk of the future, she stole a kiss and then another, until the kisses turned greedy and desperate and she moaned for something more. Gendry obliged without pause, whispering sweet things, bad things, all kinds of things, as he moved in and out of her. The fiery dance was new, but like swordplay, Arya caught on quick and whispered all the things back. 

A blast of hot pleasure surged through Arya’s body when Gendry stirred slightly and his stiff cock brushed against her milky, soft thigh. She could almost taste her desire; it left her hungry for him. He was the only one who could satisfy her wolfish appetite. 

She moved to kiss his chest but stopped when other recollections struck her mind, like sudden, loosed arrows.

_Let’s go kill the bloody queen, end this stupid war and start a life together._

_You are no longer Gendry Waters. You are Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End._

_A title didn’t give that to me, Arya. You did._

He wanted to give up his title.

_You’re scared to live because you know deep down inside that you’re much too damaged for a happy or even halfway decent life._

She couldn’t let him. 

The shock of it was settling into acceptance, and with her drunkenness subsiding, she pondered the mess. 

As much as she wanted to ride off into the unknown with her blacksmith, she knew his lordship would be better for him.

_You’re much too damaged._

The ominous sound of a thick blade chopping off her father’s head…

Traveling through harsh, uninviting lands with friends and foes alike…

A dead mom, a lifeless wolf, a headless body pushing her to rough seas, to years of daydreams about the blood of her enemies…

Blindness, traumatizing exercises, willingly partaking in practices she convinced herself were acceptable…

Coming back to a life she so desperately wanted but wasn’t hers anymore…

It had all pushed her past the brink of humanity. 

But what _was_ humanity anyway?

If humanity was pain and betrayal and war, maybe she didn’t want it.

Maybe she was better off. 

_There’s another side of humanity_ , a voice said, _a decent side, with things that feel good and right_. The voice sounded like his. 

She watched Gendry sleep. What had his life been like after they were separated? Did he go to the ends of the earth to end his bad memories? Eradicate his heart and leave his old self dead to become something stronger, something unstoppable? Did he obliterate his hope for a normal life just to have a moment of relief found in someone’s hot, spurting blood?

No.

He was still Gendry. Older, stronger, more furious, but Gendry nonetheless—a bastard who wanted to belong somewhere. 

He had somewhere to belong now. Whether he wanted it or not, he was given a title, a castle, a people—how could she ever let him give that up?

He would have a good life as a Lord.

She continued to watch him. The rise and fall of his well-muscled chest was a blooming flower, budding and withering with life. She found his existence memorizing. 

Their fates collided, once again, in the course of impossible circumstances. 

Why did their roads always cross? 

And why had they survived? 

Arya was convinced it was a cruel joke administered by whatever god she didn’t serve. Gendry survived the red witch, Arya conquered Death, they both lasted winter. He was here with her, yet she felt as if an ocean was between them. She wouldn’t let him refuse a title, but she couldn’t be his lady either. 

Unlike the bull, _no, stag_ , Arya was used to swallowing hard truths and this was hers: she was fated for something else, perhaps death, perhaps not, either way…something else. 

She continued to study him, cramming all her strange and burning feelings behind the impenetrable walls of her confused heart, where a younger Arya Stark screamed for release. 

Black, brown and a hint of red stubble budded around Gendry’s open mouth; she fought the urge to kiss it. Even in his sleep, he wore a look of contentment, of peace. There was no war raging inside him. He knew who he was, what he wanted.

_Or maybe he’s just happy because he’s finally with you._

The thought was overshadowed by something harsh, something mean and angry, clawing at her insides. Was that guilt? She hadn’t felt its coarse touch in so very long. She laughed silently, recalling the last time she’d felt the bitter feeling and who’d brought it on. 

_What are you doing?_

_Just mending Lord Beric’s armor._

_Why?_

_I’m going to stay on and smith for the brotherhood._

_Have you lost your mind? When the Lannister’s find this place, you think they’ll spare the smiths? They’ll cave your head in with your own hammer._

_The Lannisters wanted to kill me long before I joined the brotherhood._

_You don’t have to do this._

_I want to—they need good men._

_Rob needs good men too. We’re leaving tomorrow and then you can…_

_What? Serve him. I’ve served men my entire life. I served Master Mott at King’s Landing and he sold me to the watch. I serve Lord Tywin at Harrenhal wondering everyday if I’d get tortured or killed. I’m done serving._

_You just said you were serving Lord Beric._

_He may be their leader, but they chose him. These men are brothers. They’re a family. I’ve never had a family._

_I can be your family._

_You wouldn’t be my family. You’d be m’lady._

The conversation took place moons ago, but it felt as if it’d occurred during last day’s sunrise. He chose strangers over her and she wielded insatiable anger and jealously toward the brotherhood because of it. She hated Gendry for making her feel so helpless back then…hated them more…hated the guilt the most. She was a lady by name, and because of her higher status, he _refused_ to believe he could be her family. She never wanted to be lady, never really considered herself one, but never loathed it so much as the day Gendry turned down a life with her due to it. 

_Look at you now_ , she thought, _a Lord_. 

Finally worthy. Finally a person. He would never have to serve anyone again—not in the way he was used to. 

_That’s all and well, but who will be my family?_ The Gendry in her mind argued.

Despite the pang of guilt, she wiggled her way out of his sweet grasp, and without waking him, kissed him gently. “I’m sorry,” she whispered against his skin before climbing out of the warmth of the bed. 

Forcing her mind to still, she slipped into her normal attire and grabbed a scabrous rucksack from a dusty trunk. 

She would be packing for one. 

From Castle Black to Storm’s End, the kingsroad stretched nearly two thousand miles. As a girl, Arya hadn’t concerned herself with travel times, or the safeguards necessary to last on perilous roads, but she was an adult now, alone too. Her mind automatically conjured Gendry’s disappointed face, but she pressed him back into the void. She needed to get prepared. 

If she kept her stopovers sparse, the journey would take a little over three weeks. From Winterfell, she would travel to Moat Cailin, from Moat Cailin to the Twins, and from there to The Inn at the Crossroads. Although the quality of the road verified from place to place, there would be enough inns and villages to keep herself and her mare fed and strong. 

The sun was rising when she set out. She didn’t say goodbye to Jon or Sansa, only Bran, who stationed himself at the great main gates, as if he knew someone was going to be there. 

“Going somewhere?” he asked, his strange and silent senses peering into her deepest thoughts. 

She mounted her black mare without much effort. “Tell Jon and Sansa where I’m going and why, will you?” 

He nodded once and then smirked. 

"What is it?” she couldn’t help but ask. 

“You’re fond of storms.” 

“I hate storms,” she told him. 

It took her innermost strength to ride away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our girl is CONFUSED! 
> 
> This chapter was full of inner dialogue. I hope it wasn't too boring. The next few chapters will be have more action. 
> 
> Thanks for the comments and kuddos, my fellow Gendrya shippers and Game of Thrones fans. 
> 
> To my other Gendrya shippers and Games of Thrones fans, let me know what you think so far--would love to hear from you! 
> 
> Any constructive criticism is welcome as well. I live to learn. 
> 
> I'm new to Tumblr but you can follow me if you want: jovanoverthere
> 
> I got my distance of the kingsroad and estimation on how long travel would take from [here](https://winteriscoming.net/2015/11/10/game-of-thrones-fan-tabulates-distances-between-places-in-westeros/)!


End file.
